by Molly Thynne
Meanwhile, had he known it, the ten shilling note was doing double duty, for the gentleman who had beguiled him into indiscretion had been enjoying his money’s worth in his own way. Five minutes in the nearest post office, with the help of the London and Telephone Directories, had given him the number of Captain Walker’s mother, another five minutes in the telephone booth, with her butler at the other end had supplied him with Captain Walker’s address and, less than half an hour later, he was interviewing that gentleman in his rooms in Duke Street. Captain Walker had heard of Constantine though he had never met him, and, when his visitor, with the most charming courtesy begged for details as to the suspected use of his car on a certain foggy morning, he was quite ready to oblige him.
“Though what he was after, I don’t know,” he said afterwards. “Said he’d got a pal at Scotland Yard and that this might have some bearing on a case he was interested in. My old Uncle Bill, who painted the town red with him in the year dot, told me he’d taken to that sort of thing in his old age. Anyway, he wasn’t giving anything away and he looked as deep as they make ’em.”
Captain Walker’s story amounted to this. On the morning of November the fourteenth, he had called on his mother, leaving his car under the care of old Higgs, who, incidentally, was a protege of his mother’s and a very decent, conscientious old chap. He was engaged with his mother from, roughly, eleven o’clock till twelve forty-five, when he came out of the house and collected his car. When he got into it the first thing that struck him was that his gloves and newspaper which he’d left on the driver’s seat had gone. He found them on the floor in the body of the car. Being certain that he had not put them there himself he had a look at the speedometer and found that, whereas it had registered just under twenty-six miles when he left it, it now stood at over twenty-eight. He could speak positively as to this as he had been testing the speedometer the day before and was keeping a careful account of the mileage registered. He had spoken to Higgs about it, but, as no damage was done to the car, he had let him off lightly.
“What with the fog and the old chap’s game leg, one couldn’t exactly blame him, but I’ll stake my oath that someone had been joy riding,” he finished. “This won’t let Higgs in for anything, will it?”
Constantine reassured him on this point and departed. When he got home Manners was waiting for him. His magisterial calm seemed unruffled, but it was a significant fact that he plunged into his recital before even helping his master off with his coat.
“It worked all right, sir,” he announced, his diction slightly more hurried than usual. “I called round at Mr, Miller’s to say that I’d got the evening off and to ask how early Roper could meet me. When we’d fixed it up I asked him if he could change a note as I wanted some coppers for my fare home. He spotted the note as soon as I took it out. Said that if that was the one he thought it was it would be a funny coincidence it’s getting back to him so soon. He’d had one loose in his pocket and the billiard chalk had come off on it and marked it just like that. Of course he wanted to know where I’d got it and I told him, at a tobacconist’s in Piccadilly. Then we started to work out how it could have got from him to me and, by the time we’d finished, I had the whole story, without having to ask a single question.”
Manners, his bowler hat pressed to his middle, leaned forward impressively.
“If that stained note they’ve got at the Yard is the one Roper’s been talking about, it was handed by him to Mr. Miller on the morning of Mrs. Miller’s murder. I’m sure there’s no mistake there.”
Constantine’s hand fell on Manners’ shoulder.
“Manners, you’re a marvel!” he exclaimed. “Have you got any details?”
“All that are necessary, I think, sir,” answered Manners, blushing faintly with gratification. “Mr. Miller was in the habit of going to Roper when he was short of ready cash and Roper informs me that he made a point of keeping a certain sum in hand for the purpose. Shortly after breakfast on the morning of the murder Mr. Miller rang for him and told him he wanted five pounds. Roper fetched the money, which included the stained note he had been carrying in his pocket. He saw Mr. Miller put the notes on the writing table in the library and place a paper weight on them. What he did with them after that he cannot say.”
Constantine’s eyes narrowed.
“Put them on the table, did he?” he exclaimed. “You’re sure he didn’t stow them in a note case, or whatever it is he carries? Or simply put them in his pocket?”
“Roper was quite definite about it, sir. The last he saw of them they were under the weight on the table.”
His eyes fell on Constantine’s overcoat and, with a shock, he came back to a realisation of his duties.
“Excuse me, sir,” he murmured, as he helped him off with it, then, with it hanging, neatly folded, on his arm, he reverted to his role of amateur detective. “As regards the identity of the note, sir, I think we can settle that to your satisfaction. Roper tells me that he got it in settlement from a bookmaker two days before. He mentioned the name in passing and I made a note of it. He says it was one of a batch and that he noticed they were all new notes. If the bookmaker got them from his bank it may be possible to trace the numbers.”
Constantine nodded.
“It’s worth trying, anyway,” he said. “Your job or mine, Manners?”
Manners coughed.
“If you’ll excuse me, yours, I think, sir,” he submitted. “An enquiry from you would, er, carry more weight.”
Constantine glanced at the clock.
“Lunch time,” he said. “We shan’t catch him now.”
Before turning to go to his room, he faced Manners squarely, his hands in his pockets, a whimsical smile on his face. He looked as if a load had fallen from his shoulders.
“We’re going to win this trick, Manners,” he said softly.
The prim line of Manners’ lips relaxed. For a moment he resembled a cat that has been licking cream.
“I was beginning to form that opinion myself, sir,” he murmured deferentially.
In his interview with the bookmaker Constantine made shameless use of Sir Richard Pomfrey’s name, but he did not mention Roper. According to his story, Sir Richard was anxious to trace certain notes that, he believed, had been paid out by the bookmaker on November the twelfth. As he had foreseen, Sir Richard’s name proved an Open Sesame in that quarter and when he went on to drop a discreet hint that the enquiry dealt with a leakage of stable information, the bookmaker was only too anxious to convince him that, if one of his clients had been lucky enough to pitch on a vulnerable stable boy, he, at least, had had no hand in the business. He professed himself as entirely at Sir Richard’s disposal, but, unfortunately, was not in a position to help as, very naturally, he kept no record of notes for small denominations that passed through his hands. He was ready enough to give the name of his bank and agreed that, if the notes were part of a new issue, the series might be traceable through his bankers.
This being a task the police were better able to deal with than himself, Constantine rang up Arkwright on his return to his flat. He gave him the name of the bank and the data supplied by the bookmaker and asked him to put the enquiry through as early as possible next day.
Arkwright, fresh from a protracted and unsatisfactory conference with his superiors, was not in the best of tempers. Superintendent Thurston had, as usual, spoken little but to the point and Arkwright had had to endure in silence a reprimand which should, by rights, have fallen to one of his subordinates. Only his genuine regard for the old man prevented him from flatly turning down his request.
“It would be easier if we weren’t working in the dark,” he grumbled. “I’ll do what I can, but banks are jealous of their privileges and we have to move carefully. Couldn’t you be a little more explicit, sir?”
Constantine ignored the plea. He realised, with some amusement, that Arkwright had not recognised the serial number he had given him and had failed to identify the note with
the one he had got from the garage proprietor.
“Can you lay your hands on Greeve?” he demanded.
Arkwright with difficulty resisted the temptation to jam the receiver back onto its hook.
“We can pull him in again, of course,” he answered shortly, “but we must have some excuse to do it.”
“Get him to Scotland Yard tomorrow afternoon and I’ll provide the excuse and what’s more, I’ll undertake to make him talk,” declared Constantine, ringing off before Arkwright could question him further.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Monsieur Karamiev had risen late according to his custom and was sitting over his coffee when Constantine was shown in by the waiter. The fat little Russian prided himself on never forgetting a face and this friend of the English Inspector’s not only possessed personality, but a name as easy to pronounce as it was to remember.
He sprang to his feet with outstretched hands.
“’Ow do you do, Monsieur Constantine,” he chanted. “I am enchanted that we meet again under happier circumstances. There is something I can do for you, yes?”
Constantine endured an elaborate process of hand squeezing and shoulder patting with an equanimity Arkwright Would never have achieved.
“I am ashamed to trouble you again,” he said, “but I have been trying in vain to get some light on Madame Abramoff’s past life. I know you did all in your power to help the police, but I am wondering whether, perhaps, in the interval, something further might have occurred to you? Memory is a tricky business. A chance word spoken by one of your company might remind you of something else said by Madame Abramoff herself in the past. You know how these things happen.”
The Russian nodded vigorously.
“Yes, indeed, it has come to all of us, myself included. But, alas, as regards poor Madame, there was no memory to awaken. She never spoke much of her affairs. All that was in my poor head I emptied out before your friend, the Inspector. As regards my artistes ...”
He paused, his eyes closed in reflection. Then, opening them suddenly, he dug Constantine hard in the chest with a plump, white finger.
“It is an idea!” he announced. “Madame Varsov, who recommended this poor Vera to my notice, is with us now. Only yesterday she joined us from Paris. As was natural, we discussed this tragedy at our meeting last night. There is nothing she has said to me that I did not know already, but she is the only one of us that knew Vera Abramoff before she joined our company. You would care to see her, yes?”
“If she would be so kind as to spare me a moment I should be deeply grateful,” declared Constantine elaborately.
Karamiev departed, with bows and apologies, and returned a few minutes later with a big, handsome woman in the early forties, whose magnificent dark eyes were alive with intelligent interest.
“Madame Varsov knows well English, but she lacks confidence,” explained Karamiev. “If Monsieur le Docteur would speak French?”
“But certainly,” agreed Constantine, who claimed the gift of tongues as his birthright. “Monsieur has perhaps explained to Madame why I am here?”
Madame bowed.
“I am afraid there is very little I can tell you,” she said, in the deep, veiled voice that is the happy possession of some singers. “The poor Vera never dwelt on her past. She would speak sometimes of her life in England, but, like we others, there were certain things she wanted only to forget. When I first met her she was absolutely destitute and too ill, as the result of suffering and want of food, to work.”
“And Madame, of her goodness, no doubt took pity on her,” interpolated Constantine quickly.
“I did my best,” she answered simply. “It was not easy. Times were hard for all of us then. When she was better I was able to find her work as dresser to an actress of my acquaintance. She had held such a post before with a ballet dancer in the early days of the revolution, so it was not difficult. Then later, I introduced her to Monsieur Karamiev and she has been with him ever since.”
“This dancer she worked for. Could you tell me her name?” asked Constantine, grasping at any straw connected with the murdered woman’s past.
Madame Varsov’s good-humoured face hardened.
“She called herself Ivanovna, Monsieur. She was one of the many figures of the Revolution, and though she worked always behind the scenes, she was powerful. Vera said little of her life while she was in her service, but sometimes she let drop a word that gave me, who have lived through that time, some hint of her suffering.”
“Do you know if Madame Abramoff was in Switzerland at any time?” asked Constantine.
“I doubt it, Monsieur, though I can say nothing for certain. She told me that she left the stage here, in England, when she married, and went at once to Russia with her husband. I know that they lived for a time in Riga, where he held an important post, before they moved to Petrograd. After the revolution she was unable to leave Russia.”
“She could not have been in Switzerland during the first years of the war, you think?”
“I should consider it most unlikely. She spoke of nursing in a military hospital in Riga and afterwards in Petrograd, before her husband was killed. I have the impression that she was in Russia all through the war.”
“Did she ever speak of a man named Miller?”
“This man whose wife she was going to stay with in London? No, Monsieur. But of this I am quite sure. She did not know this man. Mrs. Miller she had known well long ago when they had acted together, but that was before Mrs. Miller’s marriage. More than once she told me she was curious to see her friend’s husband. I understood from her that Mrs. Miller had been a little difficult in the past and she had her doubts about the success of such a ménage.”
“Do you know at all when she first renewed her acquaintance with Mrs. Miller?”
“About six weeks ago, I believe. We were playing in Paris then, and Mrs. Miller, it would seem, saw her name in some theatrical journal. Vera had altered her English Christian name of Cora to one more suitable to her Russian surname, and Mrs. Miller wrote to her at the company’s agent’s address, thinking she was perhaps some relation of the Abramoff who had married her friend, asking for news of her. In that way their correspondence began.”
Constantine thanked her and took his leave. In the hall of the hotel Karamiev, who had discreetly effaced himself during the interview, joined him. He held an envelope in his hand.
“Will Monsieur, perhaps, be seeing his friend the Inspector?” he asked. “These letters have arrived for Madame Abramoff, forwarded from Paris. I am at a loss to know what to do with them.”
“I shall be going to Scotland Yard this afternoon,” answered Constantine, “and will give them to Inspector Arkwright myself. As none of her relatives have put in an appearance the police had better take charge of them.”
He put the letters in his pocket and, with some ceremony, the two men parted. On his return to his flat Constantine found a note from Arkwright awaiting him.
“You were right,” he wrote, “though I do not see how you arrived at it. The serial number you gave me corresponds with that of a batch of new notes issued to the bank on November the eleventh. They were all paid out in the course of the next two days and your man undoubtedly cashed a cheque on November the twelfth. That is as much as the manager can say, but it sounds good enough. My head was full of other things when you telephoned or I should have recognised the number you gave me. I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll have to put your cards on the table now. We hold that note and any information you may have about it belongs to us. What about it? Greeve has been instructed to report here at three this afternoon. Shall I expect you?”
Constantine’s eyes twinkled as he read the letter. Arkwright’s patience was giving out at last and he did not blame him. After a hasty lunch at the Club he drove to Scotland Yard, arriving there a good hour before he was expected. Arkwright raised a harassed face from his papers to greet him.
“Look here, sir,” he began at once, “about that
note. I know you’ve got your own way of doing things and I’m not saying it isn’t successful, but I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to come forward now. I’ve got my report to consider.”
Constantine nodded.
“I can appreciate your feelings,” he admitted, “and I’m here to make amends. All I ask is that we deal with Greeve first.”
He took a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Arkwright.
“I want you to tackle him on these lines,” he said. “If I’m right, I believe he’ll talk. It’s a gamble, I admit. As you’ll hear later, I’ve unearthed some very curious facts and I’ve managed to string them into some kind of order. If Greeve fails us, I will hand them over to you and you must deal with them as best you can.”
Arkwright, who had been running his eye over the list of suggestions he had given him, looked up quickly.
“I say, sir,” he exclaimed, “have you any foundation for these? If the thing comes off, all well and good, but if Greeve calls our bluff, where are we?”
“No worse off than we were before,” retorted Constantine. “Do you honestly believe that Greeve wasn’t blackmailing Miller?”
“I’m morally certain that he was,” answered Arkwright, “but I can’t act on that alone. Can you give me nothing more to go on?”
Constantine eyed him with amusement.
“Nothing that you wouldn’t throw back in my face,” he said frankly. “Are you going to try it?”
Arkwright nodded. He looked anything but happy.
“I’ve sent for the man so we may as well go through with it, but I’m not too hopeful. Will you wait, sir?”
